Mrs. Beauchamp obeyed mechanically.  She seemed to feel new life, a sense of protection, an atmosphere of help; there was some one else to command and to decide.

The last sight she saw as she went out into the night was Dot’s fuzzy head leaning over the banisters at a dangerous angle.

CHAPTER XII.

Outside the rain had lessened, and the stars shone more securely.  Without a word she hurried down the cross street and on to the Parade by her companion’s side, but her feet no longer lagged.  Hope had sprung anew in her heart, and as they turned the corner she looked up at him smiling.

“I only know you as ‘the father of the twins,’” she said, “and it is a long address.”

“My name is Amherst.”  Then a moment later, as they picked their way across the muddy road to the top of the steps, “I have been trying all this time to find a reason, and I can only frame an excuse—­they have no mother!”

“Oh, poor twins!” she said.

The tide was distinctly lower, and the wind had died down.  The long waves rolled in with almost oily smoothness, and showed no ridge of foam when they broke upon the beach.  Patches of seaweed caught and reflected the moonlight.

The old sailor was baling out the boat, and half a dozen hands held her to the shore.  An air of excitement pervaded every one, and one or two men offered their services rather sheepishly; but the Royal Navy did not need assistance.

He settled Mrs. Beauchamp in the bow, with the rugs for a cushion; then he pushed off with his oar, and in another minute they were gliding out from under the shadow of the cliff, making straight for the island in front of them.

Mr. Amherst had taken the other oar, and was rowing bow.  On their left little crests of half-submerged rocks showed black against the sea, and on the far horizon the false dawn made a silver line between sky and sea.

Mrs. Beauchamp held the lines mechanically and leant forward, straining her eyes to steer for a possible landing-place; but the beating of her heart had quieted down, and she had a curious feeling that she was drifting, drifting, in this solemn silence, out of a region of torturing fear into the peaceful harbour of a dream.

The twist of the oars in the rowlocks, the rhythmical dip, and the ripple of water against the boat were restful in their monotony.  She felt her eyes closing as something slipped through her fingers—­Susie’s boot, with its long damp laces!  She looked at her lap in horror, and tried to push the dreadful object away; but there was nothing there, excepting the wet lines that had fallen from her fingers.  Some one put out a rough, kind hand to steady her, and she straightened herself with a start, meeting the old sailor’s keen eyes.

“Carry on, ma’am, carry on.”  Then, a moment later, “Way enough!”

In a minute Mr. Amherst had caught at the crags and drawn the boat alongside, and Ben had sent his voice pealing up against the cliff in a volume of sound that was absolutely terrifying.